


The Creation of John Watson

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Fix-It, M/M, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3306875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself." -George Bernard Shaw</p>
<p>John doesn't know who he is if he's not with someone. He embarks on a journey of self-discovery and in doing so puts distance between himself and Sherlock. Unfortunately for him, his brain won't let Sherlock leave him alone. Sometimes, absence is needed to find what you've been looking for all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Creation of John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, Batik.

Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.

 

Or some such nonsense, John had once heard.

 

But it's very hard to create yourself when you don't know what you're supposed to be.

 

John had been many things in his life: a soldier, a doctor, an invalid, a son, a brother, a husband, and even an almost-father. He had created none of those things. The army had made him a soldier, the university a doctor, a bullet made him an invalid. His parents had made him a son and brother. Mary had made him a husband and almost-father. In the end, the baby wasn't even his, so scratch that last one. He had never once "created" himself.

 

Even when it came to Sherlock, he had always been Sherlock's plus one.

 

So saying he needed a break after everything that had happened with Mary, the baby, and the whole Moriarty debacle was an understatement. Sure, he'd felt a pang of guilt at the hurt in Sherlock's eyes when he told him, no, he wouldn't be moving back in to Baker Street and would, instead, be finding a place of his own now that everything was done. He'd told Sherlock he'd keep in touch but asked him to please respect his wishes right now and give him his space. And then John set about trying to create himself.

  
He continued to practice medicine, albeit at a different surgery than the one where he and Mary had worked. He did need an income after all. But he set about trying different things to become this person he wanted -- no, needed --, to be. He tried several creative endeavours --  painting, sculpting, even picked up the clarinet again. All were dismal failures.

 

When he'd told Sherlock about them via one of his daily texts, he could practically feel the raised eyebrow and scoff via the " _Really, John? -SH_ " reply he'd received. Mercifully, Sherlock had refrained from saying anything further.

 

John tried his hand at writing under a pseudonym but, without the fame of being attached to Sherlock Holmes' name, it went nowhere. Photography was also a disaster.

  
Finally, he booked a holiday in the country, a place near enough to the beach that he could go to if he desired, but also hilly enough for rambling excursions and hikes. Maybe he just needed to get away from the city for a while. When he got there, it was too quiet, too peaceful -- and out of any mobile network range; thus, he had no contact with Sherlock. He found himself reaching for his mobile often, knowing that Sherlock would be able to appreciate his boredom, before remembering that there wasn't a way to get in touch with Sherlock unless he phoned him from the land line.

 

And that just wouldn't do. Texting was one thing. It was easy enough to put space between them when it was just words on a screen, or so John had thought. Besides, Sherlock preferred to text. John didn't need to hear how Sherlock had known this was a bad idea from the start and that John didn't need to _create_ himself. Because, John heard Sherlock's voice say in his head, that was a ridiculous notion. John was John. Everything he'd done in his life had made him who he was. He had been creating himself all along, the baritone voice in his head scoffed.

 

John sat in the cozy chair in front of the fireplace at the little cottage, fiddling with his mobile. Fine. If the only thing he was going to think about was Sherlock talking to him then he might as well find out what the bastard in his head had to say. John closed his eyes and let the conversation continue.  
  


\--------------

 

"Creating myself how? I'm nobody without somebody, apparently. And I don't need to tell you how unhealthy that is."

  
In his head, Sherlock appeared in the chair opposite John.

 

"Everyone needs someone."

  
"Oh, that's rich, coming from you, Mr. 'Alone is what I have; alone is what protects me.' You've never needed anyone."

  
"You know that's not true, John." Sherlock sounded hurt. "I may have once believed that, but even you are not so dense as to think I still feel that way. Besides, I only said that to get rid of you that day, remember?"

  
"Yeah, ta very much for that and what followed."

 

John realized this was heading towards a replay of the "you bastard, you jumped" conversation, so he mentally redirected it back the way he wanted.

 

"Who are you, Sherlock? How did you create yourself? You seem very sure of yourself. You're confidant, a bloody genius, attractive as hell, talented, know what you want. I could go on and on. How did you do it?"

  
The Sherlock in John’s head smirked at him.

 

"You'd have to ask me that question to get a real answer, wouldn't you? And it wouldn't hurt for you to tell me all that. But you won't, will you?"

  
John shrunk down in his chair.

 

"No, because I know you. And I don't want to hear what you'll say when you hear that."

  
Sherlock's gaze was just as intense in John's mind as it was in reality.

 

"Are you sure, John? Remember your wedding. Remember what I did for you at Appledore. Are you sure?"

  
John shifted in his chair.

 

"Appledore. You said yourself, you're a high-functioning sociopath. You've reiterated that since Day One. And my wedding doesn't count. You were losing me to someone else. Of course you were upset."

  
"Think about what you just said, John."

  
John made to reply but stopped as the words sank in. Silence stretched between them.

 

"It wasn't supposed to change, though," he finally replied.

  
"We were both fools to think that. We both knew better. We just didn't want to admit it."

 

There was that touch of sadness in Sherlock's voice again.

 

"You're not really a high-functioning sociopath, are you?"

 

Sherlock smiled sadly at him. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

 

"The real Sherlock would have some sort of scathing comment or be defensive right now." John huffed out a humourless laugh.

 

"But you're not having this conversation with him."

 

"So how do I know I'm right?" John asked meekly.

 

"Because you are John Watson and no one knows Sherlock Holmes better than you. And you KNOW that is fact," Sherlock said emphatically.

 

"So I've created myself to be what's best for you, you're saying?"

 

Sherlock huffed.

 

"No, you idiot."

 

"There's the Sherlock I know and --" John interjected, stopping himself before he could say anything further.

 

Sherlock just looked at him, that verdigris stare boring holes into his soul.

 

"No, you idiot. You were already what was best for me before I met you. If you ask me, and I answer truthfully, I'm willing to bet I knew it almost from the start. Just like you knew I was someone, something, different from that first day. Tell me you weren't a little turned on that first night after the chase, that you weren't attracted to me in those first moments in the lab at Barts."

 

John shifted uncomfortably.

 

"You knew I was and you told me in no uncertain terms you weren't interested."

 

"Hmmm, I did, didn't I? That was before I knew, while I was still terrified of what was going on with me. You scared me, John,” his fingers steepled under his chin pointing in John’s direction, head nodding. “Not as a person, but what you represented. Sentiment." Sherlock unclasped his hands, dangling them over his knees, and leaned forward in his chair at the last word.

 

"That still doesn't answer my question," John said, again steering the conversation away from dangerous territory. "Who the hell am I without you, without Mary, or anyone else? Who _am_ I?"

 

Sherlock cocked his head and just looked at him.

 

"You are John Watson. What more, or should I say, who else do you want to be?"

 

John waved.

 

"Oh, hello there, Ella, I didn't realize you looked like Sherlock now."

 

Sherlock grimaced.

 

"It's not my fault she seeped into your subconscious. But she poses a valid question. Why does your being anyone other than John Watson matter?"

 

"Because without Sherlock Holmes, there is no John Watson,"John said bitterly.

 

"Ah. Is that so?" Sherlock smirked at him.

 

"What? What do you know that you're not telling me?" John blurted out angrily.

 

"It's what you know that you won't let yourself realize. You've tried to create yourself without me and yet you find it hard to do _anything_ without me. I'm always in your thoughts, I'm always present. I'm always just a text away -- until you rented this place and now you can't text me so you're having a conversation with me in your head. You know what it means." Sherlock pointed out.

 

"That I'm finally going insane?" John sulked.

 

"No. That you're finally recognizing those feelings you keep denying, have been denying for years now. Finding a bloke attractive, being a bit turned on by the danger he provides, well, those are things easily dismissed or easily taken care of with a -- pardon the crassness but this is your head -- wank in the middle of the night. I know you even had one or two men in your past who you allowed closer under the guise of coping in a combat zone -- Major Sholto comes to mind."

 

Sherlock paused to look at John, who found himself squirming at the memories Sherlock was invoking. Sherlock continued after a small smile.

 

"You never let yourself feel more than a modicum of affection for them. You cared, yes. But this, what you feel for me, is different, isn't it?"

 

John swallowed hard and nodded.

 

"Your feelings for me can’t just be left on the battlefield. They can't be shoved into the friends -- or friends-with-benefits -- box that you want them so badly to fit. This whole experiment of yours hasn't been about creating yourself. It's been about trying to find out if you can truly separate yourself from me. And we both know that didn't work when I was gone, so how did you expect it to work when I'm a text or phone call away?

 

You know what this is now. You once said you loved me. You were right. You just didn't realize to what extent."

 

Sherlock dropped the last words like a bomb in John's brain and disappeared.

 

John's eyes shot open, his mobile clutched tight to his chest as all the emotional walls he'd built up came crumbling down at the realization. After that, he couldn't pack his bags fast enough as he rushed to catch the next train back to London. As soon as he he had service, he sent a quick text to Sherlock.

 

_On my way home._

 

_Bored with the countryside so soon? -SH_

 

_I won't find what I'm looking for there._

 

_Why do you insist on trying to find something that's already right in front of you? -SH_

 

_Because I'm an idiot._

 

_Obviously. -SH_

 

John smiled to himself, his mobile against his lips. What he wanted to say to Sherlock he didn't want to say via text, but he had to wonder if Sherlock had already deduced why he was returning early and that by "home" he'd meant 221B.

 

John felt like the ride back to London was much longer than the one he'd taken to his retreat. He knew in reality it was the same amount of time, but the nervousness fluttering around in his belly made the trip seem longer. He refused to allow himself to consider that his mental conversation had been wrong. He remembered the looks on Sherlock's face the night of his wedding and at Appledore.

 

He also remembered their conversation on the tarmac, one he and mind-Sherlock conveniently had not brought up. He was now certain Sherlock had been about to profess his feelings for John but had stopped himself. John remembered the look on Sherlock's face as he'd disembarked the plane and his own heart leaping at the realization that Sherlock was back. He had been quite certain that Sherlock wasn't coming back when the plane had taken off, but neither of them had wanted to say anything that might have tainted those presumably final moments with ghosts from their past.

 

Well, he was done with not saying things best left unsaid. He could only hope his subconscious was right about all of this.

 

\-------------------

John had never given Sherlock back his key to the flat. He knew Sherlock must have heard him open the front door and ascend the steps. He was proved right when he walked in and found Sherlock standing -- waiting for him -- in the blue dressing gown John liked best, dress trousers, and a silk shirt. But the look on Sherlock's face was one of confusion.

 

"I thought you said you were on your way home?"

 

John smiled.

 

"I did."

 

"Then why stop by here? I thought you wanted distance," Sherlock asked, his arms crossed.

 

John felt his mouth twitch at the realization that Sherlock hadn't yet deduced what was going on and he repressed the grin he felt trying to grow on his face. Sherlock, of course, noticed.

 

"What? Did you feel the need to rub your absence in my face?" Sherlock countered defensively as he paced.

 

"Nooo." John couldn't stop the grin at that point. "I just realized that what I'm looking for is here in this flat."

 

"What could you have possibly left here that you've been looking for all this time?"

 

Sherlock had missed the grin in his pacing.

 

"For a mad genius, you are surprisingly obtuse."

 

John chuckled and stepped into Sherlock's path, grabbing him by the arms and looking up at him. The look on Sherlock's face when he realized what John had said made the long train ride back worth it.

 

"Oh." Sherlock said softly.

  
"Yes, oh," John replied in kind, his hands still on Sherlock's biceps as his thumbs traced soft lines across the fabric there. "Found you. And like you said, you were right in front of me."


End file.
